


The Best Chaser

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Drunk Sex, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-18
Updated: 2011-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-18 07:23:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trowa and Heero share some new experiences after the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Chaser

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I wrote this quite a while ago. I even had a friend beta read it, but then I didn't do anything else with it. Heero/Trowa is my Gundam Wing OTP since the days of Silent Passion and mailing lists...FTW. Anyway, this is supposed to roughly take place post-Endless Waltz...the timeline is a bit TWT, but the point is that it's post-war. I'm not sure if I'm going to expound on this or not; the ending sort of suggests that. But since it is finished, I figured I'd throw it up. It was actually supposed to fit into a much larger arc of Trowa and Heero adjusting to civilian life, but the other parts are uh...bad. REAL bad. I wrote this a bit later, which explains some things, and I think it works as a piece of stand-alone semi-depressing smut. (Because really...what else are you going to get with these two? Christ.) NC-17. Anyway...yes...here we go.
> 
> Oh, and I forgot: a big thank you to alifestyle for beta reading!

They were both drinking whiskey. Trowa had been drinking from the beginning, and Heero had switched halfway through from something harmless to the hard stuff.

The bar had a few patrons lingering in the corners to prove that it was an actual place of business. The only light came from the dim bulbs which shone out from under thick, beer bottle-colored glass shades hanging above each table. The counter they sat at was sticky and littered with coasters advertising some kind of new absinthe that purportedly came directly from the colonies, promising to take you, “Out of this world!” (The pun was not lost on Heero.) It gave it an edgy ring, as if everything that came out of the colonies held some sort of dark undercurrent of an attractive, deviant lifestyle. In reality, a visit to a colony could often be equated with sad-eyed prostitutes, impoverished families trying to move somewhere better, and the stale smell of recycled rain that had probably been piss water at some point.

“Heero,” he heard his name and looked at Trowa, untangling himself from his thoughts. He found that when given the time to be reflective, he often was. There were no explosions to interrupt him.

Trowa had experience with drinking, that much was obvious. He was knocking back his fourth glass of whiskey; the ice cubes clinked as he swallowed it. Heero was still on his second.

This whole excursion had been the result of Catherine urging them to go do something besides languish in the circus camp doing menial chores. Her good deed didn’t go unpunished; Trowa made Heero decide where to go, the most difficult decision of the entire undertaking. He did what she asked, though; Cathy, as he referred to her, had a kind of power over Trowa that wasn’t power at all. It was a bond, and Trowa listened to her because of it. Heero wondered about the relationship they shared; it was an unfamiliar thing to him, perhaps with the exception of the other pilots.

They ended up at a bar because they were too old to do anything that Heero could come up with based on his time as a “normal teenager” while enrolled in boarding schools under false identities. He had no idea what other 18-year-olds did for fun. So Heero decided the best thing to do was ask a random civilian a question he’d heard people of a similar age ask: “Is there anything to do around here?”

He repeated the line as if he were on stage with Trowa as the audience. The person he stopped apparently bought the act and had recommended the bar where they were now sitting.

“Heero,” Trowa repeated, “what time is it?”

Heero didn’t even bother to look at the clock. “21:00 hours.”

“Are we done here?”

“Are we?” Heero replied.

“We’ve been gone a few hours. We can go back now.”

Heero nodded, then realized that he drunk was when he stood up. He had underestimated his body’s response to the alcohol.

“Are you okay?” Trowa looked at him in mild surprise.

Heero mumbled an affirmative, and straightened himself up.

They made their way back from whence they came. Cathy intercepted them on the way to Trowa’s trailer.

“I tell you two to go out and do something to relax and you come back smelling like a distillery,” she said, shaking her head. It was an observation that sounded like it might evolve into a rebuke, but the look she faced them with was more surprised than anything else.

Heero glanced over at Trowa, whose face was a little out of focus at that particular moment, but he just saw him shrug, as if unfazed by his sister’s response to their outing.

“You’re inebriated,” Trowa observed objectively as they walked through the doorway of the trailer. Heero shot him an annoyed sideways glare but then walked right into the bed and fell halfway onto the floor.

“You’ve never drank alcohol,” he said to the disheveled figure, stating to the obvious as Heero righted himself.

“Not for recreational purposes,” was the somewhat slurred, mysterious response. Trowa shook his head a little bit. Compared to the other hordes of drunk people Trowa had seen in his life, Heero was by no means obliterated.

“You knew how drunk you’d get,” Trowa stated, as if reasoning out the paradox and catching on for the first time.

“I know,” Heero admitted. “I was curious.”

“Hm,” Trowa intoned thoughtfully, but didn’t pursue the observation. “I’m going to bed.”

He reached over Heero to the bedside table that held some of his personal items he kept in the drawer – toothbrush, toothpaste, soap – basic items that didn’t fit in the tiny bathroom that lacked any type of storage.

Heero’s gaze was boring into him and he met the strange intent look head on, unsure as to why Heero was staring at him, wondering if it was because he was drunk. The blue eyes were completely focused, however.

Trowa almost reacted on pure, retaliatory instinct when Heero’s fist unexpectedly hit his chest, until he realized that it wasn’t a punch, but a grab. It all happened quickly; then his shirt was an anchor attached to the chain of Heero’s arm as he pulled Trowa down on top of him.

“What – ”

He stopped in the middle of the question when Heero stayed shock still underneath of him, looking for all the world like he had just made a huge mistake and was thinking better of his impulsive, whiskey-fueled action. He looked confused, an emotion that Trowa wasn’t used to seeing on him. But as always, his intense stare was focused right on Trowa’s face, as though he was probing for some clue as to what would happen next. He still didn’t move.

Trowa saw the look, saw what it meant. He wasn’t drunk, but the alcohol he had imbibed earlier in the evening let him suspend his thoughts, if only for a moment, with more ease than usual.

In one smooth motion he grabbed Heero’s hands away from his chest and pinned them, then lowered his head to lick and bite at Heero’s neck. He didn’t know if this was what that concentrated stare was about, or what was expected of him at this juncture. He was interested enough to find out though, and had no illusions about whether or not Heero would stop him if he didn’t like what was going on.

But Heero stayed still and let the biting continue, let Trowa stop and look his body up and down, survey it in an unguarded manner, openly evaluating him. There was something a little clinical about it, as if Trowa were on autopilot yet still somehow involved.

The truth of the matter was that Trowa hadn’t been with anyone for a long time, and he got confused about which of his memories were times of want, and which were times of practical necessity.

But the feel of Heero’s solid body underneath of his, the knowledge that he couldn’t hurt him, even if he tried, reassured him. He didn’t need to make decisions right then; they had already been made.

Trowa’s mouth was everywhere; on Heero’s chest, on his neck, on his shoulders, wet, hot breath whistling against his skin. He didn’t know what to do or how to react, couldn’t process the feelings individually, couldn’t catch up to even think about responding in kind. He was a novice when it came to this. Like drinking, Trowa was obviously not.

He licked at his collarbone, and then finally slowed a little to look at Heero who took advantage of the pause in action.

He pushed Trowa off of him with his effortless strength, but Trowa didn’t fight back; he just let himself be pushed to the side, waiting. Heero grabbed him by the arms and pinned them above his head, just as Trowa had done to him, and then looked at him very closely. But then he didn’t know what to do. He knew how to respond to power struggles; but not one like this, he realized at that moment.

Trowa met his eyes with a calm expression that said he knew exactly what Heero was thinking, what he was trying to do, understood the flawed logic behind his reaction. So he let Heero hold him down, but shifted his legs and pressed his hips up forcefully. Heero gasped and released his death grip.

He didn’t resist when they switched places again and Trowa pushed him back underneath, just took in a deep breath and tried to find a place to put his hands. He looked a little vulnerable; Trowa tried not to study the expression too closely, even though somewhere in the back of his mind he was fascinated. He had never seen Heero make a face even close to the one he was making right then. But he pushed it away; he didn’t want to process that part of the act just yet. It was too late in the night, too much whiskey, too much right then.

“Take off your jacket,” he said in a low voice.

Heero looked at him a little uncertainly, but did as requested and dropped the jacket he was still wearing onto the floor. He hated things on the floor, but didn’t pay it much mind when Trowa bit at his nipple through his shirt. There was something violent about the way the bites came, something dangerous, and he stiffened.

Trowa just pushed his shirt up and continued what he was doing.

“Take it off,” he said. Another command.

Heero did and Trowa shucked his own shirt off. Skin on skin, he felt the warmth and hard ridges of Trowa’s body; he looked like a stranger in the dark, sounded like one, ordering him around. No one had ever ordered Heero around except the scientists, who were long gone; he hadn’t had any strings to tug at for a long time. But he did what Trowa told him to anyway.

He decided to do an experiment, and reached out his hand. Trowa caught it and pushed it back above his head, but he used his superior strength to wrench it out of the other man’s grip. Trowa relented and waited for whatever it was Heero thought he was going to do. He stayed still for a moment and could hear slow breathing in the quiet room; he wasn’t sure whose breath it was.

Unexpectedly, a set of fingers fluttered over his sternum, experimental, hesitant. He shivered and stayed quiet. They came again, the calluses rough against his skin, scars against calluses, the texture of fingers roughed up by mobile suits, unexpectedly capable of light touches and the elicitation of ambivalent feelings.

Heero felt the tension ascend from Trowa’s body, and he voluntarily raised his hand back above his head to its former position and looked up at Trowa as though returning a key that he had borrowed to open a locked door.

Trowa shuddered and pushed his hand under Heero, slid down to the small of his back and slipped his fingers into the waistband of the jeans Heero was still wearing. Heero’s shoulders tightened reflexively and he closed his eyes, grabbed at the sheets with his hands that were now free.

“Do you want to stop?” Trowa’s voice held a note of simultaneous indifference and anticipation, conflicted and clipped.

Heero looked up at him; their faces were very close right then, and it was strange to realize that it was Trowa staring down at him with his hand against his ass. They both looked away at the same time.

“I don’t know,” Heero responded honestly.

“Take your pants off,” Trowa replied, “and then decide.”

He decided to do as Trowa said and wriggled out of his jeans; the other man retreated and they didn’t touch. Only when Heero was nearly naked did he move closer and survey the body lying on his bed, in his sheets, the same one he had taken care of for a month. A different time, a different place, a different person… a shared past he couldn’t change, with ramifications he couldn’t completely comprehend.

The tangled maze of his thoughts seemed to expand exponentially with each day that had elapsed since the end of the war. He couldn’t keep up; it was like throwing a deer into an ocean.

He didn’t look Heero in the face, but pushed his legs apart. He licked at the sensitive skin along his inner thighs but didn’t go near his cock that he could see was hard. From between his legs, he asked again, “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” came the whispered response, but it was immediate.

“Okay.”

He pulled Heero’s underwear off and slicked his fingers with something he had retrieved out of the drawer he had originally been aiming for.

“Get on your hands and knees,” he said, “spread your legs and press your chest against the bed.”

Heero did as instructed and for a minute, Trowa just watched the totally prone body. Then he spread him apart and rubbed at his entrance.

Heero’s legs shook and Trowa steadied him. He rubbed harder, making slow circles, until Heero finally made a noise. He had his eyes closed, but his head fell forward a little bit and a whine came out of his throat as if without his permission.

Trowa pushed one of his fingers in slowly and then out, then faster, fucking him in shallow movements with his slender, callused digit, just as callused as Heero’s were.

Heero was panting and the sheets were balled in his fists, the lemon sheets, Cathy’s lemon sheets. Heero Yuy, once the honed weapon, once the self-destructing, frenetic pilot, once the seeker of his own end, was here now, moaning unabashedly with his muscles contracting in all of their fantastic strength, every part of his body tense and standing in sharp relief to the bones that poked out at his hips, his collarbones, the line of his jaw.

He said Trowa’s name in a husky, half spent voice and took in a shuddery breath. He added a second finger and Heero gasped; he slowed a little, but Heero just slammed himself backwards and forced Trowa’s fingers deeper inside of him. The rhythm grew faster; Trowa stopped and flipped him onto his back. He bent Heero’s legs up and hooked them over his own shoulders, pressed forward to keep them apart and angled up, and pushed his fingers back into his ass. He leaned down and took Heero’s cock in his mouth and sucked hard.

The other man came violently, but there was no sound, only silent tremors that shook his body like a series of earthquakes.

After a moment of stillness, Trowa moved away to finish himself off, but kept the fingers of his other hand embedded in Heero’s body for a few more moments. He finally hazarded a look at the other’s face. Heero was looking at him, his blue gaze cutting through the darkness of the room with that unrelenting intensity, his face streaked with sweat and fatigue and an overwhelmed, startled expression. Slats of yellow light filtered through the Venetian blinds to make shadowed bands across his bare chest. Trowa doubled over and came hard with a painful cry.

He stayed like that for a moment, catching his breath. He kept his eyes carefully focused on the floor, willing it to be a floor he’d never seen, convincing himself that the body nearby wasn’t anyone he knew particularly well, distancing himself. He needed to get away.

He felt Heero’s hand on his leg and started, and then they were close again. Heero smelled like whiskey, and then the whiskey kissed him, and grabbed his shoulders with the inexperienced touch of someone unaccustomed to displays of physical affection. That didn’t seem to matter. Heero pushed him backwards to lie against the cool sheets. Trowa could feel the dampness of Heero’s cock against his leg as he kissed him on the mouth; he felt like an animal skin rug spread out on the floor. He tried to push him away, but Heero wouldn’t budge.

“Don’t do that,” Trowa said softly.

Heero’s response came through his hands; he pressed one against Trowa’s chest firmly enough to keep him still and the other pushed his hair back and away from his face, although that touch was unexpectedly light.

“Why?” was Heero’s response, though his face didn’t betray anything he may have been thinking.

Trowa closed his eyes and turned his head to the side, his expression becoming completely blank, and recoiled into himself.

Heero knew he had lost, so he backed off and moved to sit on the floor and lean against the side of the mattress. Trowa didn’t say anything, but after a few minutes he got up without looking at Heero and receded into the bathroom. Heero could hear the faucet running from behind the closed door.

Trowa splashed cold water onto his face and rinsed his hands off. He felt sticky, so he turned on the shower and let it run for a few minutes so that it filled the tiny room with steam. He thought about Heero on the other side of the door, sitting there with his arms crossed over his knees, entirely uncaring that he was completely naked, looking at the floor and trying to figure out what had just happened.

Trowa got into the water and it burned; he didn’t bother to turn down the temperature. It beat against his back so hotly that it was almost unbearable, but he knew it wouldn’t cause any real injury. He let it run.

He couldn’t stop seeing Heero’s face in his mind, the eyes, the look. Heero. The Heero he’d known for years, the Heero he’d just fucked in his own bed, whose cock he had just sucked, before thinking about what he was doing. He didn’t do that with people he knew well; it was uncomfortable. He rarely did it at all anymore; sex had been sort of exciting when he was still young enough to see it as something new. But once he realized it could be used as a tool to gather information or achieve a goal, that it was a means to an end, he stopped caring so much.

He was hard again and stroking himself with Heero’s eyes in his head, looking at him. He wanted it; he wanted Heero to look at him, to see him, to feel him. He couldn’t bear it; it was too much. It burned through all of his nerve endings like a dry, hot brush fire.

Trowa came again with a growl and sat down hard against the floor of the shower, let the water hit him from the front, angled his face up at it so it pushed his hair backwards. He held his arms around himself protectively and leaned his head on one knee. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt it: real pain, inside of him.


End file.
